


Senbazuru

by merrythoughts



Series: (Drabbles) Your Eyes Say So Much To Me [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Corpses, Developing Relationship, Disturbing Themes, Dreams, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-11 19:57:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10473033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrythoughts/pseuds/merrythoughts
Summary: He thinks of the Japanese legend that folding one thousand origami paper cranes was believed to grant you a wish.[Standalone/drabble, set between chapter 8 and 9 of the main story]





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dapperscript](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dapperscript/gifts).



> Set between the timeskip between chapter 8 and 9 of [Do You Feel The Hunger, Does It Howl Inside?](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9529106/chapters/21546362), but you can probably just read it as a standalone as well ♥

_I love you, Will. And all that entails. Violence, darkness, nightmares… All of you._

Yes, he’d asked to hear it, but Will hadn’t been entirely prepared for the fucking staggering _truth_ of the admission. The weight of it. A measly ‘okay’ had been all he managed to respond with at the time. Then they had simply went to sleep and it hadn't been brought up again. (No, it’s Will who asks to hear it, who brings it up)

It's been weeks, but the words still worm their way to the surface and bother Will every now and again. Hannibal had almost seemed annoyed at having to use the word, citing it as inadequate.

Hannibal Lecter loves him… The thought of the older man going on a date or celebrating traditional couples’ holidays like Valentine’s Day or anniversaries makes Will want to snort. It would never happen. Chocolates and flowers, candle lit dinners -- what a joke. Well, the latter would probably please Hannibal all too much, give him an excuse to go all out... Then again, Will has no idea what two men get each other or actually do on such occasions. Probably the same thing heterosexual couples did, his mind points out unhelpfully. Not that Will wants romance. Or _does_ romance well for that matter. He's faked it in the past, less so with Molly because she hadn’t really cared for all that fuss (or so she had claimed, but who really knew at this point?).

And Christ, what does it say about him that the most romantic gesture or gift he's received is a corpse bent and twisted just for him and on display in a fucking cathedral. It had been a visual representation of Hannibal’s broken heart and it had made his own heart feel…

* * *

They kiss slowly, the room in a soft warm glow from the lamp. The press of Hannibal’s mouth is firm, yet he never pushes for more, never deepens the kiss. They've perfected the art of careful liplocking, no teeth, very little tongue, creeping along a fine line of never quite enough. Will undoubtedly tastes like scotch, but Hannibal doesn't complain. Why would he? He’s just glad Will’s succumbed to dragging himself into the bedroom, into his bed, let alone kissing.

(Because all Hannibal requires is his company, after all; the statement still evokes various sentiments, none of which Will likes to dwell on.)

Hannibal's touch is tender, stroking through unruly hair and Will wants those fingers to curl inward, to _pull_. Likewise, he could yank his head back and Hannibal would get the idea, but Will doesn't. He behaves. Will’s own hands clench at bedsheets, but they would rather be traveling over Hannibal's skin. He's somehow discovered that he possesses some inner restraint, able to temper himself (or deny himself if he looks at it in a certain way). But it keeps things between them safe. Controlled.

He's the one that has set this pace for them and Hannibal simply follows. Will’s also the one that always pulls away.

He pulls away now.

“Goodnight.” He wishes he didn't sound so unsure. So goddamn breathless, but he does. Will rolls over. (He longs, yearns, aches--)

Hannibal turns off the lamp. “Goodnight, Will.” His words are warm and hold no judgment.

The silence that settles over them feels profound and Will refuses to draw comfort from the man lying beside him. This will be a night where he remains resolute in the no-cuddling stance.

It takes him a good good hour before sleep finally claims him.

* * *

Despite his best efforts, Will always falls asleep first.  Hannibal lays next to him unmoving, a perfect corpse - no, bed partner, his mind hastily corrects. He holds Will if Will allows it and once it’s clear that they’re finished talking, Hannibal simply lies there breathing steady and slow (almost like a metronome).  It's never been discussed, but Will _knows_ that the man is waiting for him to nod off first. It used to unnerve Will for he’s accustomed to tossing and turning while listening to Molly's soft occasional snores.

Now he listens to Hannibal’s even breathing, being lulled by the sounds of his inhalations and exhalations.  

(He's only ever seen Hannibal asleep in the hospital room of Abigail Hobbs, arm stretched out, his hand over her hand - an act of comfort. The show of vulnerability and caring had surprised Will, made him look a little too long at it, but Will hadn't known what to think about it at the time. He thinks Hannibal looked peaceful, though.)

And maybe Will sleeps better knowing that Hannibal is watching over him, maybe there's less of a chance that he'll wake sweaty, tangled in sheets and hearing his name repeated to him in a soothing manner.

Or maybe it’s bullshit, but he says nothing about it, curling into Hannibal's familiar form anyway. He places his hand over Hannibal’s heart, feels the constant beat and thinks of the rush of blood being pumped through its chambers and valves, the intricacies involved in the processes of diastole and systole. Will can't help but match his bed partners breathing. In this, they can be one organism, their chests rising and falling in unison.

* * *

He dreams that he’s folding the limbs of dead bodies like origami. There are numerous subjects laid out on stainless steel examination tables for him. Sutures make up the dotted lines, instructions that indicate where to fold. It’s not realistic, the bodies bend far too easily, completely devoid of rigormortis, but he, too, wants to make a gift.

He thinks of the Japanese legend that folding one thousand origami paper cranes was believed to grant you a wish. Maybe if he folds one thousand corpses, his wish would be granted.

_(‘And what do you wish for, Will?’ you would ask, straight to the point, your eyes glittering as you beheld my creation. One thousand corpses, one thousand stars hanging in the sky, connected by string... ‘For us to be together always,’ I would reply.)_


End file.
